


Cut Away Yesterday

by ChillsofFire



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Gap Filler, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-19 10:54:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14235741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChillsofFire/pseuds/ChillsofFire
Summary: Agron mourns the loss of his brother.//or, my mind only considered angst when Agron cut his hair.





	Cut Away Yesterday

The first night was easiest.

It did not take long to reach the sewers. But the group of newly freed men and women, gladiators and house slaves and servants, were run ragged. Hearts burned with emotions, some with victory and joy, some with fear and confusion. There were minds to ease and hearts to lift, food to find and shelter to secure.

The time saved in travel was lost to comforting those who needed it, and when Agron finally fell to bed, his mind still heavy and numb from the wine he had consumed during the raid of the villa, he found his thoughts blissfully empty.

The first night was easy.

 

It was the morning that was hard.

Agron woke, stiff from the stone of their new shelter, head aching from too much drink, and reached out beside him, intending to rouse Duro from sleep. They had much to do, after all.

But his hand did not find warm flesh; no shoulder to shake or dreadlocked hair to playfully tug until it was swatted away. No. His hand met nothing but cool air and rough stone.

The pain that pierced his heart left him breathless as he remembered.

But his thoughts were halted before they could stray too far, pulled to attention by the sound of Spartacus’ voice, calling his name.

Agron bit his tongue, clenched his fist, and rose to meet with him.

They had much to do, after all.

 

It was hard to control his thoughts.

He would push them away, force them down, until his heart stopped aching and his chest rose evenly as he breathed. Until he forgot that Duro was gone.

But they only returned again, with more force and passion, when, in his moments of forgetting, Agron would turn to mutter about the Gauls, only to find himself absent good company, the jesting words dying on his tongue when he found no friendly ear to receive them.

Twice he found himself on the verge of calling for his brother, to aid with lifting or removing of the various obstructions in their temporary shelter, only to have to bite the words back before they could flee his mouth.

More than once, he found himself briefly glancing at the surface of the water that ran through the tunnels, only to double take at his own reflection. He could have sworn…just behind him…

And once, near midday, Agron thought he heard his name, whispered from the tunnels where no one yet dwelled.

He excused himself from the group just before sunset, telling Spartacus that he needed to bathe. Blood still coated him from the night before, now dried and flaking. It was not a complete lie.

Spartacus allowed it, asking only that he not be seen. Agron knew that Spartacus saw beyond his words. He knew that Spartacus could see the cracks in his heart, the pain that twisted and turned beneath his tired expression. He knew that Spartacus understood what he needed.

Agron took his leave quickly, before anyone else could see how close he was to breaking.

 

There was a small stream close to the entrance of the sewers; the current quick but gentle. The water was clean and cool, and shallow enough that Agron could kneel in the center, sit back on his heels, and be submerged to his hips. And it was there that he sat, his subligaria and a simple dagger resting on a rock beside him.

For a long moment, he did not move, only stared blankly ahead as the water flowed around him, slowly removing the dried blood from his legs. He sat, and he stared, and he finally allowed his thoughts to surface.

Duro was dead.

His little brother, who he had sworn to protect, to see grow and thrive, was gone.

Because he had let his guard down.

Because he had not been watching.

Duro was dead, and it was his fault.

Hot tears stung his eyes. Agron did nothing to wipe them away. He drew a shaky breath, forcing himself to look down at his hands where they rested in his lap. They were almost clean, rinsed by the stream and left looking pure. It was a sharp contrast to his arms and torso, still streaked with dirt and sweat and blood, not all of which was Roman.

_I save you this time, brother…_

His skin itched.

Agron began to scrub at himself, trying to ignore the way his fingers trembled against his own flesh as the gore and grime from the previous night was removed from his body.

He closed his eyes, feeling the tears begin to slide down his cheeks, hot against his skin as they rolled to fall from his jaw. Agron did not stop them, did nothing to control them. His jaw began to tremble. He swallowed down the choked sound that threatened to leave him, reminding himself that he had to keep himself quiet, lest anyone venturing through the area should hear him.

_Stay by my side._

_I do not need you to hold hand._

Agron swallowed again.

The weight of his brother’s body could still be felt in his arms. The heat of his flesh and blood was still imprinted on his skin. Agron could still hear the sound of Duro’s scream when the sword had pierced him. He still felt the way he had trembled upon taking last breaths.

 _I only wish to protect him._ That was what he had told Spartacus. That was all he had wanted to do.

Agron forced himself to open his eyes and examine his body for any missed grime, for any injuries that had gone overlooked.

He found none. His skin was clean again, returned to its sun-darkened state and colored with bruises. He was fine.

Of course he was fine.

Fate was cruel like that.

The water rippled around him as he bent forward, cupping his hands beneath the surface of the stream in order to draw water up to his face. He could see his reflection, his haunted, red rimmed eyes, his dreadlocks sticking up at odd angles.

Green eyes slid closed as cool water splashed against his face, ridding him of the last of yesterday’s deed.

Green eyes opened again.

Brown eyes stared back at him.

Agron reeled back, the movements breaking the surface of the water, destroying the reflection with rough waves. But not before he saw what lay waiting there.

Duro, staring up at him.

Heart hammering in his chest, Agron scrambled to right himself from where he now sat, fallen back on his hands in his shock. He was up on his knees in a flash, looking behind him with a wild hope that he knew would be crushed even as he moved.

There was no one; just the endless sight of the river and the land that surrounded it, stretching on and on until the water bent and the sky met the tops of distant trees. It was silent, and he was alone.

Agron swallowed, his hands shaking as he turned and reached for his subligaria. It was time to go, he needed to get back.

Something flashed out of the corner of his eye, and when he turned his head, he swore he saw a glimpse of Duro again, reflected in the water, his dark dreadlocks mussed and twisted.

Agron felt sick. His stomach twisted, and he could feel the blood rush from his face. The cloth was snatched off the rock it sat on, and he was wrapping it around his waist before he had time to even brush the water from his skin. He gathered his dagger, forcing himself not to look at the water, and hurried back to the shore.

His feet moved quickly along the edge of the stream, stumbling once over a sudden rise in the earth, his eyes not seeing what was directly in front of him, his focus turned elsewhere. Duro’s eyes seemed to burn into his mind, deep brown and filled with a warm mirth that did not match the empty coldness Agron had last seen in them.

It suddenly hurt to breathe, his throat constricting as his heart continued to pound; too hard, too loud, too much.

_I would die before I killed my own brother!_

Agron was running, his feet suddenly carrying him faster, and it hurt because the tightness of his chest did not allow him to breathe deep enough for the extra speed. But he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. If he had been paying attention, Duro would not have had to protect him.

_I save you this time, brother…_

He stumbled again, this time falling to his hands and knees as his foot snagged in a root. Gasping, Agron moved to push himself up, only to pause when he caught his reflection in the water once again. The way his dreadlocks had fallen again, twisted together…

It was Duro when he had tumbled down that hill, so close to their home, laughing and whooping as he’d purposefully rolled himself down the grassy land. He’d risen covered in dirt, and had only grinned when Agron had scolded him, swatting at Agron’s hand when he’d attempted to fix his hair.

It was Duro when he had woken with a start, pulled from dreams by Agron clanging swords together to rouse him for a patrol. He’d scowled and shook his head to realign his dreads, and Agron had ruffled them just to see them mussed once again.

It was Duro when he’d fought Crixus, when he’d risen after being struck with the shield, his eyes hard and set to purpose, the tangled locks of his hair unnoticed.

It was Duro, it was Duro, it was all Duro.

And this time Agron could not look away. His eyes burned with tears again, distorting his vision until brown became black, green became brown, and the gleam of the setting sun on the water looked like the flash of teeth as Duro grinned, grinned, always grinning, up at him.

Agron reached up, gripping at his hair, tangling his fingers into the rough knots and coarse ropes, and he remembered sitting with Duro in front of him, twisting the dark curls into dreads to match his own, remembered the proud grin on Duro’s face as he’d finished and patted his head, remembered tugging the locks later to tease and comfort and wake his brother.

The vision in the water continued to grin, and no matter how hard he tried to push it aside, Agron could not replace his brother’s face with his own, could not stop himself from pulling his own hair and remembering that the one who used to match him was gone.

It was too much, it hurt, it hurt, it _hurt._ And Agron couldn’t stand it.

He did not look away from the water. Not when one hand dropped from his head. Not when he wrapped shaking fingers around his dagger.

Agron did not look away from the water. He raised his blade, met the imagined eyes of his brother, and began to cut.

 

Spartacus said nothing when Agron returned, walking past him as if he did not see him. There was nothing Spartacus could say, nothing he could do, except silently tell the others to leave Agron be with a wave of his hand.

Crixus had to do a double take, his hand reaching for his sword before he recognized the face of the man going by. Rhaskos looked ready to comment, but Crixus stood on his foot and, in a rare show of brotherly understanding, gestured for the gathered Gauls to part as Agron went by, his eyes glazed and looking through them all.

Donar came to him in the place he had claimed as his own, quiet as he kneeled at Agron’s side, watching without a word as Agron stared at the wall before him. His hair was short, shorn almost completely to the skin. There were nicks here and there where the blade had come too close, had been pressed too hard by hands moving too fast.

“Did they have meaning to your people?” Donar asked him softly, recalling the decorative knots and twisted buns he had seen among other tribes before his capture.

“None that matter now,” Agron murmured, voice detached from all emotion.

Donar nodded slightly, knowing there was nothing he could say to soothe the wounds of loss. He settled next to Agron, a silent companion, and joined him in staring at the wall. Agron did not speak again, did not move until he was lying down for the night. Donar remained, neither invited to stay nor told to leave, so he settled by the entrance to Agron’s area and closed his eyes, cursing every Roman god he could think of.

 

The next morning saw Agron by the water again, listening as the others began to shift around the sewer tunnels. The torches they had lit cast strange shadows over the murky water, and they twisted with the sharp glares of light as if at war. Agron stood, and Agron stared, and when no dreadlocked, grinning face stared back, his heart squeezed with an awful, painful relief that burned as much as the grief.

“Romans!” Crixus’ voice echoed through their shelter, and though Agron was not focusing on what he was saying, he did hear Spartacus’ command to gather swords, to prepare themselves.

Donar handed him a blade.

Agron took it with a grip that turned his knuckles white, his eyes going cold as his heart began to harden.

Romans. Fucking Romans. They had taken everything from him.

Now he was going to take everything from them.


End file.
